Classic Poem

The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:

Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay,
When Chloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blushed, Euphelia frowned,
I sang and gazed, I played and trembled:

And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked how ill we all dissembled.